Page 42 of Impulse Control
René didn’t look up when I reached his office door.
“Bag down,” he said.
No greeting. No assessment. Just instruction.
I obeyed, sliding my bag off my shoulder and setting it where he pointed.
“You are late,” he added.
“I’m not,” I said calmly. “I was told nine.”
He checked his watch. Again. The same thin smile.
“Hm.”
I didn’t rise to it this time.
That earned me a glance—quick, sharp, approving in the way René approved of things: silently, like he’d file it away for later use.
“Good,” he said. “You are learning when not to speak.”
I waited. Patiently. Without rolling my eyes or slicing back at him with a biting comment of my own. I wasn’t adog. But he was also the best. In the few short weeks I’d been here, I’d learned alot. That was enough to put up with his peremptory and high-handed manner.
My silent restraint, apparently, was also correct.
He grabbed his jacket, a folded list of notes already sticking out of the pocket. “Come.”
We didn’t go far.
Instead of the street, René led me into the open newsroom, weaving through desks and bodies like a man who expected the world to part for him. To be fair, everyone did get out of his way. I would. He stopped near the photo wall—a rotating grid of prints, proofs, and rejected images pinned up with brutal honesty.
“Look,” he said.
I did.
The images were strong. Technically excellent. Composed with care. And somehow… bloodless. They said everything without risking anything.
“Tell me what is wrong,” René said.
I hesitated.
He turned slowly. “No.”
I swallowed and spoke anyway. “They’re bland. Safe. Passionless,” I said. “They don’t ask anything—demand anything of the viewer.”
A pause.
René nodded once. “Again.”
“They really don’t ask anything of the photographer either,” I added, almost grudgingly. Critiquing work was part of the art form. If you weren’t open to critique of your own or other’s work, then you didn’t grow or learn. “Basically, all you have to do is stand far enough back and you can get them.”
That earned me a longer look.
“Yes,” he said. “And?” The demand in his expression required me to answer so I met his gaze.
“They won’t last,” I finished. “They’re empty, basic, and they don’t tell a story or demand you feel anything. Nothing about themworksfor anything except maybe a photo album.”
Though I rather doubted they’d do much there either. I’d seen a million shots like that in my family’s photo album for trips, school projects, family events, and more. Everything from baby pictures to a cactus seen at a rest stop had about the same level of passion.
